When Lightening Strikes
by Dreaming Ani
Summary: 'Her fingers brought forth into the world what lay in her storming heart: sadness not fully her own yet still was. For it was hers and hers alone to carry. It was a sadness that swallowed whole her heart and made her icy flesh that much colder.' ThorxOC
1. Chapter 1

Strumming lightly the vibration of the notes shaking through that tiny body echoes down into what would presumably be the area of where her soul should lie. It's comforting, in a sick sense she assumes, to feel the very sadness that whirls around her heart to spill out and take form. Working the strings to ring out the beautiful sounds comes easy to her. She had a penchant for this, among other useless little talents of hers, to be able to play whatever instrument lay in her hands. But a grim line forever sat itself on her intensely colored lips.

For no matter how hard she tried to sound anything out other than this bitter darkness it was all that ever fell from her sickly pale fingers. No matter the instrument, and at her age she had mastered most and if not it only took her minutes to do so, it all sounded the same; broken. Her fingers brought forth into the world what lay in her storming heart: sadness not fully her own yet still was. For it was hers and hers alone to carry. It was a sadness that swallowed whole her heart and made her icy flesh that much colder.

The mournful wail of her guitar echoed in the empty air. No applause greets her when her eyes flash open to reveal startlingly dark large orbs. She's not surprised. The club was long since dubbed close. The last of the patrons were shuffled out the door which left her and the old man who ran the little tavern. And as if called by her thoughts alone the old man behind the bar looks up to flash her a soft tired smile. He's old, late fifties possibly early sixties, his hair graying where it was not balding. His face is lined with age, with the troubles of his life, and yet it holds an engrained softness that his chocolate orbs mirror.

"Go home kid," he calls out to her when he notices the equally haggard expressing on her face. It's an expression she forever will wear no matter the amount of rest. But still for others to see it so easily on a face as young as hers it often unsettled them.

The briefest of quirks—a twitch really—tilts the edge of her lips as a mock fraction of a smile. Nodding to herself she grabs hold of her guitar and unplugs it from the amp. Hopping off the battered bar stool on which she sat to play for the nights she heads to where her guitar case sat. It's a beaten case, littered in bumps and scrapes and wear from times not so gentle even to her. Even as it stands a breath away from falling to bits she cannot find it in her to part with the damned case.

Gingerly opening it she goes to place her guitar inside. The difference in the black faded case and her guitar are so immense it's nearly laughable. Her guitar looked new, shinning, slick and void of any little tarnish that would even suggest she's had it for as long as she had which happened to be a quite large number of years. It was still that sickly bright neon obnoxious coloring that it had been the first day it had been presented to her. Turquoise, a light hearted jab to break the tension between them because he had wronged in a way she figured she'd never get over.

But the sight of the coloring and that brilliant mirth dancing in those wicked eyes made her forget she had ever been wronged in the first place, as per usual. Oh but he was a deviant. His trickery, she of all people, should know just how it worked.

Placing the guitar inside as if made of glass she tries to ignore the gnawing in her gut at the thought of him. She's done worrying. She's tired praying to gods, deities, making bargains and threatening the infinite universe. She's much too old now to worry and lie awake at night when he knows the damned devil would turn up eventually, bearing useless gifts and all.

Grabbing hold of the leather jacket, worn down enough to give it character, hung upon a microphone stand. Her pale dainty ringed hands grab it with ease and begin to pull it on. She knows it's much too early for jackets and long sleeves or its barely mid autumn. But she always had run a bit on the colder side of things. The slightest chill was only intensified by her slight frame and little to no body fat. Pulling the jacket on she goes to cover her heavily faded grey 'The Shins' shirt. It was just as worn and torn as her case and jacket and did little to show any of her womanly assets. In fact it drowned out what little she had. Her black skinny jeans were loose and baggy held up by the studded belt loosely looped around her small waist. Obviously made for someone of a much taller stature her ripped at the knee jeans bunched up into her sloppily untied combat boots. Chain linked wallet dangling on her right leg and all she was the poster child for the garage punk scene.

Lifting her case she heads to the front door sending a silent and slight wave over her slumped shoulders. The air outside is just beginning to cool the earth around her and for that she's glad. There was a cold iciness that forever dwelled in her heart. It seeped into her flesh and consumed in its destructive path her essence. This iciness only ever was manageable when the environment around her was just as dead as she felt.

A silent pale hand reached around and dug into her back pocket for what lay hidden. In moments a white stick dangles from shockingly colored lips and smoke whirls around her like she was a slumbering beast long lost to this world. Clicking her black zippo shut she shoves it into her front pocket and makes to go home. She was long overdue for sleep and did not plan on pondering the ever elusive locations of her only living kin.

* * *

Cigarettes, Coffee, Beer and occasional 'Cup of Noodles' aren't by any means the most nutritious diet to live on. But it's the only easy diet she can bring herself to continue. If she had a cigarette in the morning then she needn't eat. If she had a nice cup of coffee—heavy in creamer and sugar—then she needn't lunch. Cup of Noodles and a beer were what she came home to after playing her fingers raw. All in all she much enjoyed her intake of it all.

The scent of artificial flavors wafts up her nose but gets easily shoved aside as she takes in a deep heavy drag off her nearly dead cig. A beer—the sixth consumed the moment she stepped through the door—sits in her hand as she waits for the piping hot water to undo the astronaut food in Styrofoam. She's nowhere near drunk, she has a high tolerance for alcohol, but she is on her way to pleasantly buzzed. The only source of light on in her little abode comes from the beaten and shitty TV sitting on milk cartons. It's an old model, perhaps a sixties model, the color might as well have stayed black and white for all the dullness that it was. But she wasn't much of a television junkie, no; she much preferred comics and endless torturing of her fingers.

The TV flickers twice before the image refocuses. She stares listlessly as the man in the suit goes on to talk about the overseas crisis that was thwarted by some hero or the other. She can't rightly say she cares for what good did stopping a missile crisis do? Sure it gave them all another day but in what? Everyone was poor, starved, mad with the bubbling crime and ready to rip each other's throats out. Honestly she saw no point in the saving of anything because one couldn't stop the inevitable. The world would end by the hands of a fate or at the hands of some villain hell bent on world domination, probably both.

(Oh, but if you hadn't noticed that was simply her being her gloomy cynical self. Your opinions may differ.)

'_The missiles were set to launch at Paris, London and New York City. Judging from the coordinates placed into the missiles they speculate all iconic monuments would have been shot down.'_

The blonde anchor man says in that tone of voice that sounds store bought. She doesn't know why but for whatever reason she hated it. She wasn't keen on showing much emotion—not something she did willingly, just something that just happened—but to sound so…_bland_ made her stomach lurch. Perhaps this was a side effect of growing up with an ever dramatic, lividly vivacious and theatrical person.

'_Iron Man and Captain America were able to intervene and put a spot before the weapons of mass destruction could ever launch. Reports as to who stole, transported and set the missiles have yet to be confirmed…'_

Taking a last longing intake off her cigarette she stubs the bud out in the recently washed ashtray. Her dark, those around her would often say—and agree with such a description—lifeless, eyes stayed lazily locked with the TV screen. She would have flicked it off but it being an old set it was void of a remote. So, on she endured because she was lazy.

'_Speculation of it being the notorious villain Loki…'_

The beer currently smoothly running down her throat nearly stopped dead as her heart did. Pulling the mouth of the brown glass bottle away she stares at the TV willing it to repeat itself or face dire consequences.

'_Reports of him being spotted in the aforementioned area had come in weeks earlier. PR representative Phil Coulson commented saying, 'After the events in ! #$ the villain known as Loki has not been permitted to step foot on earth. Should he ever do so, rest assured, we will be the first to know.' Senior Council member Shay had this to say on the matter…'_

There was always the chance that the media was blowing this all out of proportion. It could very well have been yet another whack job out in the desert trying to causes some ripples. Since the situation in New Mexico Loki was such a frequent sight that it rivaled that of Elvis. But a stirring in her chest just knew. No one else would have beef with iconic monuments bigger than life.

Cup of Noodles forgotten and empty beer bottle left upon a dirtied floor she stands. Her legs slowly move as her storming mind calms. She flicks off the TV as she heads towards the measly little hovel she called a bedroom. Ungracefully she drops upon her unmade bed. Kicking off her shoes she manages to wriggle out of her jeans. Too tired to grab her PJ's she flops and nestles into the warmth her heavy black blankets offered.

She knows she shouldn't feel so damn calm. She knows there should be anger and irritation. She knows she should grab hold of that slim pale neck—a color nearly as pale as he own but not quite—and strangle it until an apology was wringed out. She knew she should be feeling anything but calm. And it helps her to feign as if the thoughts that follow down into her slumber are murderous ones not relief and a barely there smile.

* * *

The sun shines bright seeping past the large windows of the Avengers Head Quarters. Tony shuffled in through the front door head bent and shoulders slumped in the tale tall signs of a hung over. Bruce stood over by the stove pouring the hot water he just boiled into a cup a sigh building on his lips. Bruce wouldn't say his life was all fun and games since he joined the Avengers. It had been everything but. Every other day he suffered from what Clint so casually called 'Mini-Hulk-Outs'. But still to be around people that knew what he was and not freak out was a nice change. After all the Avengers team was a bunch of misfit superheroes if anything at all.

"So why the statue of liberty, the Eiffel tower, and the London Bridge?" the soft spoken doctor asks. His kind hazel eyes flashing over Tony once the man settles into his seat.

Shrugging his sore shoulders Tony rubs a tired hand over his face before grumbling, "I've stopped trying to decipher the shit most of our lively enemies do. It helps to not question it."

"Do you think it was Loki?" the picture of mannerisms and innocence captain Steve Rogers asks entering the room in a steady stride. His blonde hair is neatly combed in the fashion of which time he belonged to. He wore modern clothing but that didn't stop it all from looking positively vintage upon the man. Steve would have bid them 'good morning' but it was far from morning and he's been glared long enough for having been _too chipper_ so **early**.

"Could've been," Tony says easily putting down his newspaper to address his teammates, "All I saw was a puff of green smoke before those…_things_ attacked us."

"Oh yes, a question Doctor Banner," Steve says turning to address the timid man slowly stirring his cup of tea.

Nodding and nervously sliding his glasses up the bridge of his nose Bruce nods, "O-of course."

"What, may I ask, where those things that attacked us?" Steve questions fixing the doctor with a leveled earnest pale blue stare.

"Now there's an answer I'm just eager to find out as well. Those creeps tarnished my favorite suit!" Tony mumbles bitterly.

No sound is issued as she enters. And they all suppose that's quite normal. A heavy footed assassin would never make it out in the world. But still no one is quite used to her just suddenly popping out of seemingly thin air to cut into conversations. Tossing her red curls over her shoulder she tells Tony, "You say that about every one of your suits."

Suppressing the urge to jolt forward in surprise Tony snaps out, "That's because they are all 'my favorite suit' at one point or another and quit sneaking up on people."

Rolling her moss colored eyes Natasha—Black Widow—gracefully slips into her seat and stares up at the resident doctor currently sporting a pensive look. The three super heroes can almost see the wheels turning in the young man's head as he tried desperately to work out all that was wrong in the world in that talented mind of his.

"Based on the video provided by Starks suit, and mind you this is speculation considering I couldn't get a sample of anything to do further investigation—"Bruce begins to say eyeing the captain softly.

Holding up his hand the super solider merely smiles and says, "I trust your judgment. Plus, this is merely for my own sake. I would very much like to know what nearly bit my foot off."

Ignoring Iron Man's snickering Bruce nods and goes on to say, "Okay these creatures were relatively reptile looking. They would be serpents if not for the fact that they were breathing fire or firing projectile acid. They had only two hind legs equipped with three talons sharp enough to mangle Tony's suit. They appeared to have small little wings unfit for creatures that size which allowed them only to briefly hover in the air as they launched themselves at you. From what I gather, if this was Loki, and I have my doubts that it would be anyone else, they are what is referred to as a '_Lindworm'_."

"AH!" the booming trumpet of a voice shook the very walls of their HQ. Heads snapped in the direction of the very loud voice to take in the larger than life—literally—god standing in the living room. Golden hair spilled down in soft little waves to linger inches past his broad, muscle thick, shoulders. A radiant smile lit a face with more beauty than anyone was ever willing to admit, aloud. Dressed in his armor he made his way over to them with a look of utter pride.

"My comrades, is it true that you have slain the Lindworms?" Thor bellows his cerulean blue eyes alight with joy and more satisfaction. He leaves little room for an answer before asking in that rich timber filled voice, "Tonight we feast and I will tell you of when the warriors three and I battled them as children!"

"You fought those things as a kid?" Tony balked his glass of whisky forgotten as he tried to envision a kid taking on those razor sharp teeth and four foot tall heathens.

"Aye! As a warrior and prince of Asgard I must partake in quests!" Thor tells them as he entered the kitchen, "The Lindworms, angry bunch those creatures—" at this Steve can only grimace and nod to himself for he just moments ago dealt with said creatures, "had begun to burn away the forest in which they dwelled. We were sent to keep them from becoming too many."

"Ah, over population," Bruce gathers as he stared intently at the marvel that was this Asgardian.

"While they are small, weak, and their fire and venom only stings," at this Tony merely silently glared in the large mans direction, "their scales are somewhat like a dragons. A sword cannot so easily kill them. But if one manages to catch the beast with their mouth…"

"Yeah, shot them in the mouth and they go down, we figured as much," Tony tells him with a tight smile.

"Aye, alone we never would have left the woods uninjured as we did if not for my brother," Thor smiles his eyes locked on the black granite of their table.

The room visibly tensed. Despite having set loose a creature with the intent of destroying the entire universe Thor still held a deep sense of love towards his brother. His teammates could not, and would possibly never, understand just how that worked. But they saw the proof of it whenever he spoke of Loki. It shone on his face for if Thor was one thing it was expressive. From the loud shouts of joy when he figured out how to use the remote and down to the love of pulling—significantly weaker—mortals into that death grip he called a hug.

Flashing his eyes up to the declared leader of the group Thor asks with confusion lining his handsome face, "But Captain, I was to be under the impression that Midgard did not have creatures such as these."

"Thor earlier today we were called to intervene on a terrorist attack, one we think might have been…" at this he looks around for someone else to help but finds all his teammates tight lipped, "We think it might have had something to do with Loki—"

"Loki?" Thor springs from his chair eyes wide, muscles tight with the thought of an oncoming battle, "He is in this realm?"

"Um, now that I can't be certain of but who else do you know that can flitter back and forth between worlds and bring with him Norse mythology creatures?" The man of iron question Thor.

"Where is he?" Thor demands in a voice that made them all feel like children beside a very angry adult. In a sense perhaps that was how it really was.

"Fury is currently working on that but at the moment—" Natasha's voice was cut off by the voice of JARVIS coming from the speakers installed into various parts of the house.

"Sir, after your directives to infiltrate the city's traffic cameras in search for 'Loki'…

"Okay, way to sell me out there JARVIS," Tony says standing and waving off Bruce's question whether that was legal. He was Iron Man he did what he wanted, "What'd you find out?"

"Well, I have him entering a diner filled with civilians on twenty forth street as we speak," Jarvis informs all.

Faster than anyone thought possible the crew dispersed. Each going off to suit up and capture themselves a villain but only one stalls for a brief moment, Natasha. Surveying the room she asks anyone who could listen, "Barton?"

"In the jet and waiting," came the familiar teasing lull of the arrow slinging assassin through the JARVIS's comms, "Might wanna move it, I'll leave you behind."

Rolling her moss colored eyes she continues her fast gait to the elevator that would lead her to the level on which Clint sat waiting.

* * *

Something dangerously close to happiness fluttered in her chest s she stepped out of her shower. Written in the fog of her bathroom mirror sat directions to a small little diner. She needn't ask who had done that for she knew who the culprit was. Rubbing herself dry she jumps into the closest clothes she comes across. This happens to be a size too big long sleeved black shirt that threatened to brush the mid of her thighs. Pulling on a pair of skin tight grey skinny jeans she jumped into her combat boots. Only after her jacket was on, her contents of last night's jeans now on her, and epically long hair pulled into a damp messy bun she flew through the door.

Her steps were eager as she entered the diner. Her ringed fingers quivered in anxiety as she brushed her just trimmed black bangs out of her face. Her lips do their best to turn up into a brilliant smile but manage only to look mildly pleased. Her heart stutters in her chest when she stands before him with those brilliant eyes staring down at her.

Looking beautiful was his state of mind. It came naturally and with such elegance she felt almost ashamed she hadn't tried to dress up a bit. He was dressed in a pair of black form fitting jeans that accentuated those long lean muscled legs. A jade v neck t-shirt hugged his torso showing off the muscled, but still lithe, he held. Though she has grown tired of always having to see in some shade of green she cannot deny that he looks beautiful in it. It goes well with his soft milky complexion. It brings out the life in his bottle green eyes. His hair has grown since she last saw him. The inky tresses now brush his slender—but still broad as any males should be—shoulders. It was set a glow much like his milky complexion. He's pulled his hair into a pony tail but most managed to slip out and dangle around his face. Even his locks had a streak of rebellion.

A smile splits across a blemish free face that threatens to woo a dragon off his feet. She knows for a fact that his smile alone has caused wars in various different realms. Inky brows arch perfectly over large emerald eyes that glow with mischief and mirth. His nose is one of nobility and his chiseled jaw reeks of defiance. He has impeccable bone structure that would have any model—regardless of gender—positively green with envy. His lips are not exactly thin but they aren't pouty like hers are. They are colored a modest shade of pink that all but makes them pop against his milky coloring. He's tall, lean and she knows that his incredible six foot something height dwarfs her already small height more so. He was gorgeous in ways most men, and even women, would never be. His slim lean frame leant to fragility while the definition of concealed muscle spoke of a strength one would never wish to test. He was a marvel in his own right. He is the very essence of poise and elegance.

Leaning down her body melts against his as he pulls her into a tight hug. His long willowy arms wrap themselves around her small body making her feel loved, needed and treasured if only for a brief moment. Slowly, and much too soon in her opinion, they pull apart. He holds her at arm's length his beautiful jade eyes wandering over the expanse of her face. They roam as if she's changed, as if there was something worth omitting to memory about her.

"My beautiful flower," he calls out to her. The soft silky lull of his voice warming up the frozen chunk of ice she once entertained as a heart. His hand, cool but surprisingly warm against her skin, the picture of softness comes to rub against her face. His hand is large, but that isn't saying much, she's petite in every sense of the word. His hand is thin and delicate, artistic in ways only a painters hand could be. But she knew those soft silky hands—filled with such gentleness, if he ever cared to show it—could be a force to be reckoned. He holds her face for a delicate moment and she can't help leaning into his touch.

But then his precious radiant smile breaks. It drops down a fraction as his thumb rubs the underside of her too large eyes, "Your eyes…" his voice is a whisper causing her heart to still its thumping and for her miniscule smile to fade away, "they are black."

Those words serve to break the delicate moment that she's trapped in. In turn the sounds of the world around her resurface. Pulling away he stares at her with this shine in his eyes she's not sure she likes. She can see the question on his tongue, the nagging and worry nipping at her heels. So she pulls out of his embrace and goes to settle into the booth he's acquired for them. They sit in a frail silence, one that isn't forced but merely natural for she knew him to like the lapse of silences. In the end she assumes it was not mere coincidence that she was a girl of little words. But when she cannot bear his heavy questioning gaze she goes to a pull out a white stick. She does not miss the look of disgust that mars his perfect face when she heaves out a plume of smoke.

"Must you partake in such hideous acts?" he asks in that voice that makes him sound much too old, much too royal and all together too annoying for her nerves _not_ to grate.

A black brow twitches at the question. There is so much she could say to that. So much instances and moments in which he had been insanely irresponsible about several things, including bot of their lives. But she can't say any of these things. She can't speak ill to him, or anyone for that matter, no matter how hard she tries. the words she wishes to say will forever be locked in the iced cage that was her heart.

With ease she merely allows the smoke to seep out of her lungs with the words she spoke, "Must _you_ partake in such hideous acts?"

"Why my dear, I know not what you mean," he says with a coy expression blooming across his features.

Relatively stoic and expressionless—an expression and state of being she was basically born in—she flicks the growing ash off her cigarette and questions, "the missiles."

A grin manages to split across his face that shows he's been up to no good yet again, "Did you not like my 'hello' present?"

"Why?" she doesn't need to elaborate because the grin he wears only grows into the one she's all too familiar with.

"Because if memory serves me well, these places were the ones that drove you out of my arms," he states with his grin and green eyes flashing dangerously.

And then it clicks just why he choose the places he did. Three times, three times she gathered her courage, or her cowardice, and managed to sneak off. The first had been London; she figured she could hide among the various faces there. He easily found her within a few days. In anger she flew off in the dead of night and wound up atop of the Eiffel Tower glaring when green eyes emerged from the shadows. Scared she hide upon the statue of liberty. She knew he would not blow the damn thing up unless he wanted the whole world knowing his little secret.

"Oh," was all she managed to huff out. In all honesty what else could she say?

Pale pink lips part as he goes to say something. But they go slack before snapping shut. His emerald eyes, soft as they always were when he was around her, hardened. She could not phantom before this very moment what an emerald fire would look like. But as she stared into those eyes she could see it perfectly. A question instantly sprouts at her tongue but dies the moment the windows of the diner explode.

"They dare!" his civilian clothing melted away to green armor and horned helmet.

The scent of magic wafts around him and builds up in pressure that she feels it weighing down her shoulders. His body is trembling and she knows it to be a mixture of anger, magic and pent up raw Jötunn energy. Regardless of the mayhem and destruction that would soon be unleashed by him, for his own enjoyment and mere whim she found he never quite looked like himself unless raining down pain on others.

Staff in hand he slams it upon the tiled floor issuing a flash of green light which she knew to be his magical power flowing through, shapeless and raw, "They dare attack in your presence?"

The very moment he had shifted the entire diner had vacated via screaming scared shitless people. So she was only mildly worried when the roof caved in by a bolt of thunder that nearly deafened her. Wide eyed her head whips around to the source of the commotion to find a man standing there in the middle of a crater. He's large, thick, bulky all hard lines and made only of unrefined strength.

The man—if he was man at all—was tall and built thick like an ox on steroids. Dressed in armor she had a faint feeling that she knew the man. The red cape clipped to his back only made the feeling grow. But before she could even try to figure out what was happening more entered the diner. Red, white and blue she knew that to be the infamous Captain America that tossed his circular shield in her green eyed menaces direction. The sounds akin to something like rocket propellers gave way to the sight of red and yellow steel, Iron man. There was something like a helicopter—though the model and design was not one she's ever seen—black and sleek but promising of lethal danger hovering over the diner.

In a language long lost a spell is muttered. Before the infamous 'Avengers' could even grasp what was happening all hell broke loose. A vast amount of Lindworms appeared in a puff of green smoke. She wasn't presented enough time to count exactly how many there were but as a rough guess-timation there had to be at least fifty. And if one asked her that was one too many. Lindworms were an unruly bunch, in her experience, especially if spooked, as they were undoubtedly were at the moment. Being suddenly teleported tended to disorientate the best of people. So fifty, four foot tall, Lindworms screeched in confusion and fear fueled rage as they locked eyes on anything that resembled enemies.

Without command they attacked the flying man in Iron and the good captain. The Lindworms took care of the helicopter and the two men and drove them out into the street. She could hear the vicious hissing the Lindworms did. She could hear the good captain yelling out orders and the blasting of Iron Mans rockets. The heavy booming sound of a gun going off rattled her teeth as well as the earth it struck.

In a blur of emerald and black her menace attacked. His dark emerald magic flashing and issuing loud booms leaving destruction in their wake. She watched enthralled—more than would be seen as normal—as he attacked the blonde man. A stray thought whirls her mind as she sits in her seat. Her menace always did seem a bit more on the feline side of things, as was his race, tall supremacy that was raw in its own nature with its force. Lean, slick muscle with all the lethal grace of a black panther and the menacing gaze he struck all with fear fueled awe. She never felt more assured of that assumption than now as he roared and bared his teeth at his enemy.

She considered him beautiful before but only now—with the look of pure hatred fixed on his face—did he look absolutely gorgeous.

The crashing noise of a wall breaking makes her mind focus at the scene before her. A bright flash of green blasts out of a pale hand. He throws it at the blonde mans chest effectively throwing the blonde out of the diner and through a wall. Panting he turns to address her, green eyes vivid in a way she assumes only battle ever made them, but is cut off when a green color appears.

It's not a rich color, thick and heavy with the feeling of magic, but light and nearly lime hued. Belatedly does she realize that it's a hand, a much larger hand, a very _large_ hand. It wraps itself around the green of his robes before tossing him into the ground. The mammoth of a hand is attached to a much larger forearm and in turn this arm is attached to something she only rarely ever saw on the television, The Hulk.

The beastly creature that was known as the Hulk picked up the cursing God in green and proceeded to slam him back into the broken ground. The process continued more times than she cared to count. It was a hideous sight. Frozen she watched the way every time his lean powerful figure was thrown down unmercifully. The Hulk lifted the body over and over again until finally her green eyed menace went limp and those eyes fluttered close.

With a roar the Hulk tossed down the unconscious bundle that was her menace before setting his eyes on her. She knows—logically speaking of course—that a _normal_ person would turn tail and run. She knows that a _normal_ person wouldn't have even been in the diner in the first place. A _normal_ person wouldn't be in her situation at all. But then again she never was all that **good **with being _normal_.

The sadness forever encasing her heart easily stirs in the bitter rage she finds herself in. It comes alive at the touch of her _essence_ as she reaches in and calls it forth. The ice she's worked so hard to keep from showing, ever, seeps out and takes hold of her. She can feel the transformation happen as quickly as it takes for her lungs to take in air. She feels every cell in her body take their true shape, their true nature, and the careful etchings that came with who—or what—she was etch themselves over her altered flesh.

A roar rips past her lips as she rushes forward. A brief look of confusion and fascination flutter over a lime colored face before anger sets back in. His large fists slam back into the floor, further breaking it, but it does nothing to hinder her stride. Faster than deemed humanly normal she rushes up to him. Throwing herself into the air she lets her two feet connect to a large well muscled green chest.

Normally a five foot five, hundred and ten pound girl would do little damage to a gigantic green skinned beast like the Hulk. But then again she did say she wasn't any good at normal. The force in which she delivers her blow alone should break the bones in his chest. But behind her blow of brute strength she channels as much of her magic as she can and sends him flying through the air and out of the diner in a blast of silver magic. He flies out but that only serves to further fan the fiery fury of his. For thrashing and growling he comes back and successfully tackles her into the ground.

Rolling around in rubble they fight, punches, kicks, silver hued magic and ice.

* * *

"Okay, on a side note," Tony says as he flies through the sky trying to shake off the two stubborn Lindworms currently trying to gut him in his new suit, "You have to admit, these creeps do a hell of a job with adaption."

"Stark cover Barton!" Steve shouts through his comm. as he successfully breaks the jaw of a Lindworm currently trying to bite his head off.

"Aye, aye Captain!" Tony mumbled before flying off and helping the archer assassin currently backed into a corner by a dozen or so other worldly creatures.

The explosion of light and deafening sound makes everyone instinctively flinch—even the creatures they fight. The sky has darkened as if a storm or hurricane was upon them. And in a sense perhaps that was exactly what Thor was. Bright white, nearly blue but never so, the lightning strikes the very beasts that dare lunge themselves at the god. Standing to his full intimidating six foot six stature the god glared at the very earth he stood upon.

His intention had not been to fight his brother. How long had it been since he had last spoken to his brother? Not yelled, not threaten or be threatened but actually speak to one another? It had been too long for Thor's liking. He wanted to talk to his brother, get him to see reason and explain why he had led an armada against him when he fell to Midgard, powerless and mortal. Better yet, why had he left at all? But his brother attacked him with eyes set to murder and end his own life. The very sight of those flaming green eyes shook something in him he thought unshakeable. Did his brother truly hate him as the Allfather had said?

Lost in his private thoughts he is woken at the sight of his green comrade thrown out of the building. It wasn't so much an odd sight in itself, no; the green mess of anger was often getting thrown about. What did strike him as strange were the giant spikes of ice sticking out of his green flesh. He recognized the attack but only after watching the culprit rush out of the building. Stormy blue eyes flash wide as he stares at the beast before him.

Blue, the color of Jötunn, tainted its flesh. It was a soft pale color that bordered on white if the true tinge of it was not brought out by the deep colorings of the markings upon its flesh. Made of ice the small creature should have looked hideous. For a Jötunn was a beast of ice, a giant, with deformities that went well with their grisly attitudes and savage ways, or at least so the stories say. This Jötunn was strange—for obvious reasons, the fact that it had hair and features easily distinguishable—but it was short, thin and so very utterly beautiful when in the throes of battle. Thor found himself strangely fascinated by the way the Midgard sun shone on that pale blue skin making it almost glitter. He found himself wondering if the skin was as soft as it looked. His fingers itched to run over the deep blue undistinguishable marking over its flesh. He knows not what the markings are for he's only seen it on a hand full of Jötunn beasts.

Inky straight tresses slipped out of the bind that held it back falling to linger over the blue face. The tresses moved wildly about as if snakes and wishing to bite into the enemies that the beast was engaged with. Its intensity in coloring only amplified the soft shade of blue that was its flesh. Red eyes, large so very large, were like pools of blood as they locked with whatever foe it came across. Small hands were equipped with black talons and Thor knew them to be as lethal as they looked with their sharpness.

But out of everything that was happening Thor found himself wondering only one thing. That one thing was not the reason as to why the Jötunn was attacking them or even how the Jötunn was even here. That one thing that he was wondering about was not the fact that he found the sight of this strange Jötunn beast beautiful. That one thing that invaded his mind was a simple wondering of why the Jötunn was wearing Midgardian clothing, or at least, some of it.

For the Jötunn beast wore that strange piece of clothing that Jane once called a 'bra' before smacking it out of his hand. She informed him that it was a woman's 'delicates' and that for a man to be holding them was…_inappropriate_. He remembers feeling deeply ashamed and unable to meet Jane's gaze after bringing such a scandalous act into her home. He was assured it was all well. The sight of this Midgardian 'bra' forced him to see that this Jötunn was a woman which in itself was strange. Jötunn's did not have women, they were all male with the ability to lie with one another and procreate, or so the stories go.

The strange Jötunn wore only that 'bra', which from what he gathers was not something many Midgardian women did, baring her womanly assets to the world and all the males in attendance. He found such a fact to be unsettling in his gut as he stared on. The Jötunn wore what Midgardians referred to as 'jeans' that were tight on its toned legs baring its shape and other assets to the world easily.

So transfixed was he with this…anomaly, of sorts, that he failed to notice the way Captain America rushed the fool. He was late in his warning as he watched his good friend get impaled with a spike of ice that the Jötunn generated from its palms. Rushing over to his fallen comrade he does his best to break the large spike with Mjolnir without causing the great captain too much discomfort.

"What is _that_?" demands Captain America through gritted teeth and a pained tight expression.

Clasping the mortals hand Thor does his best at a gentle lifting before grimly saying, "That, as you say, is a Jötunn from the realm of Jötunheimr. Those are mighty warriors, born for battle, with a strength they are born with that is marveled in nine realms.

"I'm confused," Tony says as he hovers above them in his iron suit, "are you praising our villain here or…"

"No my friend, I do not praise the Jötunn, I merely mean to warn you. For a Jötunn is a mighty warrior in its own right. Their strength rivals that of an Æsir. I fear I must warn my mortal friends that a mere touch of a Jötunn will forever freeze ones limbs and will later have to be hacked off." Thor tells them easily eyes wandering over to the sight of the Jötunn creating walls of ice to protect itself from the onslaught of tiny iron midgardian spears called bullets.

"Banner doesn't seem to be having any problems," Tony shouts over the sound of gun fire.

Hissing in pain as he reaches down to pick up his shield Captain America says, "Well, if you do recall, The Hulk has healing abilities not so human."

"Ah, right…" Tony absent mindedly mumbles as he swoops and lets free a missile in the blue creatures direction.

The missile barely reaches its destination before the creature has it in its vicious talons and throwing it over to the archers way. Wide eyed Clinton jumps off the rooftop he's stationed at and onto the swooping black copter Natasha is operating.

"How 'bout we worry 'bout getting this fucking monster, huh ladies?" Clint growls as he struggles for purchase upon the still flying copter firing rounds off at the blue thing in the streets.

"Ou, someone's clearly not enjoying himself," teased Natasha as she clicked the red button and fired a missile of her own at the blue thing.

Nodding Steve grips his round shield, "Lets get this done."

* * *

This here is my first 'Thor/Avengers' fic. Be gentle with me.

Please reveiw, internet cookies will be shared!

-Dreaming Ani


	2. Chapter 2

Thor gaped.

Steve blushed crimson red.

Natasha sighed in annoyance.

Clint stared in fascination.

Tony leered behind his mask.

Bruce simply tried to calm down.

No one was comfortable the whole ride as they followed Fury's directives to head to the S.H.I.E.L.D. Helicarrier. The reason no one was comfortable was the simple fact that they had with them prisoners. Albeit unconscious prisoners but otherworldly prisoners with a hell of a temper none the less. Loki alone would have made them all a little tense. But add on that thing…no that Jötunn, as Thor calls it, or whatever it was, made things all that much _tenser_. (If such a word even existed.)

The battle had raged on for so long that 'breaks' were dealt within the team. They fought till minutes blurred into hours and hours felt stretched out into years. They fought until Thor grew enraged at a face full of talon clawing and threw his great hammer down on the small blue figure. How a serious blow of sheer strength coming from a God of Thunder felt no one was sure. They, all members of the Avengers, agreed though to never be on the receiving end of it.

With the sheer strength of the god and the backing of brilliant white lightening the figure was struck down. As the Jötunn lay unconscious and seemingly dead upon the broken floor the strangest thing occurred, if that was possible. Blue bleed out to white which showed that the creature that they had been fighting with their lives was nothing more than a tiny, too skinny, little girl. She lay upon the floor still as a corpse. The ashen white complexion that colored her skin did little to disprove that she was not dead.

It had been Thor who tossed Loki over his shoulder with utter ease. It had been Thor who gingerly and with utmost care lifted the Jötunn turned girl. It had been Thor that suggested they bind them with something before any of them woke. It had been Thor who was tasked to do this for the Jötunn turned girl for none of his teammates were willing to touch the beast turned human no matter how heartbreakingly beautiful and tragic she looked shirtless on their copter floor.

It was cold—but it was always cold, that was something she had been born with—when she woke. Her large eyes fluttered open with ease as she lazily stretched out to undo the kinks in her tense muscles. There as a pounding in her head that felt like she might've bumped heads with an enraged bull. She grumbled against the flooding of light and caused her to easily clench her eyes in protest. A low grumble slipped past her lips as she tossed her arm over her eyes.

Had she left her curtains open again?

Possibly, she was often careless like that. She tries again to open her eyes but finds that the obtrusive light is glaring and she much prefers the darkness that her arm and lids provide. So with little trouble she finds herself lying down, fully awake with her eyes screwed shut.

There's a soft breeze that rushes around her. Her flesh is always cold, always so cool to the touch, mirroring that in which she harbors within her. But merely because it is in her and she is it that doesn't stop her from seeking warmth. So the winds cause a slight chill to run down her spine as she's made aware that she's shirtless.

Heavy sleep riddled brain of hers stumbles to try to provide an answer as to how or why she's in such a state, shirtless and on the floor. She's not so much shocked more than she is confused. She can't count how many times she's arrived home from the bar, hammered, to fall asleep in the hall of her apartment half undressed. The occurrence of such a thing happens so often she's grown quite used to it and frankly can't bring herself to change such behavior.

But then her brain, which is nearly at the milestone of fully awake, stutters to a halt. Wait, when did she go drinking? She didn't have work last night, did she? She was with someone last night, someone important, wasn't she?

"Are you awake?" comes the soft lull of a voice; a voice that's engrained in her mind.

Her slumbering heart freezes and then picks up pace as the events that led her to be shirtless invade her muddled mind. Sleep is easily chased off leaving cold dread as she lies there in a cot much too hard for her liking. Slowly, as if any faster would get her shot—which it probably could at this point—she pulls her arm up and away from her face.

What she hopes to see is the tinged yellowing dirty walls of her apartment. What she hopes to see is that battered couch she snagged for free from next door when the tenants were evicted and their stuff was about to be thrown out. What she hopes to see is that coffee table littered with empty beer cans and a floor littered with cigarette buds. What she hopes to see is not what she ends up seeing. Oh no, far from it actually.

Green, those emerald eyes, gleaming like a cats when they were deviously happy about a mouse caught in a corner. His pale face of perfection was marred by the heavy red gashes and the deep purple bruises. His pale lips, split and swollen as they were, managed to smile at her as a ragged breath left his lips in what she assumes was a laugh. She's not so worried that she wakes to find herself in some kind of detention cell but the fact that her green eyed menace looks completely battered and entirely too tired.

"Wha…" her words fail her, as they always do.

"Hush, now my beautiful love," he coos to her in that gentle voice that always settled her bundled nerves.

She hated that tone as much as she loved it. For the sickly sweet tone managed to achieve its intended results but it was only ever used to keep her from lecturing him when he'd done something, oh so, horrible.

The curses, the demands and the hysteria lie on her tongue eager to fall and cut at him. The anger and fear nearly burst her chest open for they whirl about her like possessed spirits. Yet as she stares at him she cannot find her voice. Her words forever fail her as she softly and nearly stoically asks in such a simple indifferent manner, "Where are we?"

"I fear that I lack the answer to that question my beauty," he murmurs his eyes half hooded.

The corners of her lips twitch as she goes to frown. She knows that he's lying. He knows exactly where they were. But the answer to the question would seem rather dull so she needed to ask the right questions, always playing the riddler he was, "Why?"

"Ah…" he croons shifting lightly on the cot he lies on before stilling, "I do believe you've heard of the Avengers, my love?"

Sitting up she moves as slowly as she can to avoid the dull aches in her body. It felt as if though a mountain had risen and stomped upon her repeatedly. But she assumes fighting off The Hulk, Captain America, Iron Man and whoever or whatever that blonde bulk of muscle was—accompanied by those two sleek people armed to the teeth with explosives and guns—she should expect nothing less.

Glancing down she takes in the unhealthy coloring of her ashen colored skin. The bright white is unlike the softness of her green eyed menace with its milky texture. Her skin is pale, lifeless, something akin to a corpse. It's usually blemish free but now holds various purple and blue blotches, a hue of blue that didn't quite belong. Her eyes wandered over to her bare fingers, now void of the usual rings she wore, she wondered if someone took them from her or perhaps—which was more than likely the answer—the cold broke them. For the intensity of her cold often broke the metal of this world.

With wandering eyes she deems that nothing _else_ is wrong with her. Her skinny black jeans, the rare pair that wasn't torn, was now ripped up around her right knee area. Her brand new pair of combat boots were heavily scuffed. Turning her calculating gaze upon her surroundings, which to be honest, should have been the first thing she should have assessed. But she's been pulled into these types of situations with that green eyed menace enough times to not feel _entirely_ shaken. Plus, her vanity won out.

Very belatedly she noticed that the ground on which the cots sat on was not ground at all. It was not cement, wood, tile or anything of the kind. It was in fact glass, or something of the sort. The walls it seemed were made of glass and if she looked closely she would see that beyond the glass was nothing short of a sheer drop into what would be their death, otherworldly or not. She tries not to think of that thought. She focuses instead on the blinding sun and how it burns at her eyes. There was a reason as to why she was nocturnal; she absolutely abhorred the damn happy shine of this worlds mocking sun.

Instead of asking anything relatively close to their safety or their means for escape she merely mutters, "My shirt."

"Hmm, yes, it would seem these beastly men hold no honor," was his simple reply, done in that practiced bright voice that was meant to sear under ones skin. But to who that edged voice was directed to she can only wonder for it was not towards her.

The sound of labored breathing echoed in her mind as she merely sat there staring in his direction. The bruises on his alabaster skin had not retreated as they should but instead darkened with each passing second. He looked startlingly mortal as he lay there broken and bruised, breathe unnaturally labored as if the mere act was draining him of his whole energy.

"It seems my love, that you will have to wait a moment before I can break us free from our imprisonment," the green eyed menace whispers, his voice much too weak for her liking, "Healing has taken much of my energy. So I can only do this for you…"

She feels warmth spread across her arms. She knows what he's done but while her mind itches for the visual proof she refuses to draw her eyes away from his now slumbering form. She couldn't protect him from that bulk of green muscle so the least she could do was watch over him as they slept in the beds of their enemies.

"What's he doing now?" Tony lazily questions as he lounges about in one of the chairs.

Heaving a tired and more than bored sigh Natasha flicks her crimson colored curls out of her face in one swift graceful motion, "He's sleeping just like he was twenty seconds ago."

"You know I figured since he was a god and all," Tony drawls slowly ignoring the leveled glare he receives from the big and bad_ Thunderer_, "he'd have put up a fight by now and busted out of here."

"I agree with Tony, this seems odd, would Loki not have broken out by now?" Bruce questions softly his soft brown eyes shining in thought.

"He is healing," came the rumble of a rich timbered voice. No one need turn to know it was the resident God of Thunder but the power in his voice forced them to look.

"Yeah, I get that." Mumbled the good captain Steve as he pensively watched the young girl instead of the great villain in captivity, "Whenever I'm seriously injured my body goes into hibernation mode until my body's fixed whatever's been broken."

"So, were just gunna wait this hibernation thing out, or what?" Clint questions flipping his pen in the air and catching it effortlessly.

"It would be unwise to rile my brother from his needed sleep," Thor mumbled almost to himself but when the voices of his teammates died he knew they were listening, "Loki is a sorcerer, magic runs freely through his veins, when a sorcerer is healing they fall into slumber. When they are in a slumber their magic will protect them at all costs, no matter who it is that approaches them. They will not recognize friend from foe."

"So we wait on Loki," came Fury's voice as he entered the conference room and stared at the members of the team individually with his lone eye, "We question the girl."

No one had any objections to that. If they did they did not voice them and did a hell of a job suppressing them.

Intimidation radiated off him in waves. Dressed in black he looked like some assassin from a comic rather than a real person. A black eye patch was upon his right eye and added to the hard lines of his olive skinned face. She knows she should feel worry, intimidation, uncertainty or something along those lines but she doesn't. She sits there lazily staring at him in wonder of just how he lost his eye.

"…any scheming you might have done, or intend to do, is ill advised. Understood?" he questions only after explaining to her the purpose of the big red button and the consequences of it being pushed.

The only answer he receives is a leveled stare because her words and expressions have always been a muted thing.

"What are Loki and yourself doing in this realm?" he questions, tone hard as if he were speaking to some grand enemy, in a sense she assumes in his mind he was.

'_**Guilty until proven innocent,'**_ her mind offers demurely. And if her involvement in that street _brawl_ was anything to go by she was far from looking saintly.

"What are you?" Fury demands and when he receives her empty stare he goes to ask, "What are your intentions of being upon our planet?"

At that she nearly scoffed. It was positively _human_, no correction, **American** to go about claiming things that could not be claimed. Only gods could lay claim such as these. But she kept that to herself and schooled her dead features from cracking even a millimeter.

"What were you intending to do in that diner?" he presses further his sole dark eye narrowing in growing anger and frustration.

Languidly her eyes slide away from the man. They wander on the sky just under her feet and continue to stay there for a moment longer. Her mind is racing even if her face and eyes won't show it. She's scared, her tongue is thick with it, but what could she do? Moving Loki in the state he was in wouldn't bode well for her or anyone in the twenty mile radius if she were to steal them away somewhere.

So instead she settles for a simple answer to the one simple question, "Eat."

Hours had passed and they were still no closer to reaching answers than when they first stepped into battle. The team had grown restless. Fury was, well, in a fury. He had questioned the girl for more than an hour and the most the girl ever said was a four worded sentence. In everyone's book that was a step forward. They all had failed to even pry out a mere glance in their direction when they had gone to the cell.

The words that fell from those too crimson colored lips were short and so very flat. They were simple words like 'no' and 'yes'. But in the manner of which she spoke them left them feeling as if though the universe had spoken directly to them and undid all that they had fought so hard to accomplish.

Natasha was slamming knife after knife into the wall to vent her anger after having tried to interrogate the girl only to come back with less answers than Fury.

Clint was cleaning his bow with tight lips as he tried desperately to keep the mutterings of curses contained. For that, Steve, was grateful. Year 2012 or not, cursing in front of a lady was not something that went over too well with the Captain.

Tony was using his pent up energy and frustration on irritating his kind hearted assistant Penelope, 'Penny'. She was tight lipped and blonde brow twitching as Tony continued to be insufferable in that ever charming way of his. Steve had to admire Miss Penny, she had a saint's patience and apparently the only one that could deal with Tony's…_charms_.

Bruce had excused himself long ago to work in the labs after a private word with Fury. When Fury was questioned on this—of course, by Tony—Fury curtly told them it was none of their business and if Banner was to be questioned they would serve an undetermined amount of time in a maximum security prison.

This left Thor to pace in agitation. He had requested to beat the answers out of the girl but thankfully Fury had said no. Or at least he said, 'Too soon for that.' To that Steve blanched. How could Thor, the all around nice guy and full of love want to beat that small girl? And how could Fury even entertain the thought?! Either way Thor paced much to everyone's dismay.

Steve was the only one relatively calm as he stared at the screen showing their prisoners. Elbow on his knee and chin on his right fist he stared and contemplated what to do. He wasn't experienced in these types of situations. He was a soldier, trained to follow orders out in the field where he battled with everything in him to stay alive. He was good at fighting; he was good at balancing danger and death in the palm of his hand. What he wasn't good at was sitting around aimlessly. It killed him really.

Lunch came around in a slow crawl. People begrudgingly accepted the food as a means for distraction. The only one who wasn't fairing so well with that was Steve. Guilt riddled he stared at his food and then back at the screen of the young girl. Before that shirt magically appeared he remembered how thin she was. He remembers the way bone protruded out from under pale white flesh. He remembers thinking if she was starved.

She was tiny, frail looking and so very young. And as he stares at her a stray thought rushes through his racing mind, '_Was that how I looked…_**before**?'

That in mind he rises from his table and heads to find Fury quietly talking to Agent Coulson. Steeling his resolve he interrupts the conversation and mentally prepares himself for that steely one eyed gaze. Preparation or not that one eyed gaze forever held too much weight.

Ruby colored lips twitched in hunger, her lungs ached with need, and her fingers itched for the usual fix that she was currently being denied. She could easily remedy her current ailment but to do so would show them much more than she was ever willing to show anyone. So she settled instead to nibble her lips and stare beyond the moving white clouds beneath her. The reddening of the clouds signaled the passage of time.

The sound of a heavy steel door sliding open, the hiss of hydraulics, echoed in the silence that surrounded her. Casually she peeks out from her curtain of now loose inky tresses. Her hair is long now, unbearably so, but she cannot find it in her to hack it off. He likes it long, loves to braid it, or at least he did before he ran off on her. She assumes she grows it in a subconscious—but obviously very conscious—act to still please him.

In he walks the air around him thick with unease and nervousness. His thick frame made of muscle and power, strength and lethal agility for battle. His soft sandy blonde hair is the standard issued buzz cut and kept just as tidy as the day it was first issued. His clean shaven face is pulled into an awkward tight little smile. He wears a simple beige shirt, much too tight; the stretched fabric shows every dip and curve of delicious muscle. His blue jeans hold the same level of decency, which happens to be none at all. She wonders if he knows he's like a walking wet dream.

Blonde, brawn, blue eyed and every bit of a girls midnight tingle.

(So, she has a thing for blondes with thick arms, get over it.)

Stilling he leaves a good distance between the cell she finds herself in and himself, "You've been allowed to make a request for a meal."

Surprise coats her dark eyes, though she highly doubts it shows, as she stares at the man. All chiseled beauty looking like a handmade man rather than a person born of flesh and blood. Her response is the same to every other one they've asked, silence.

"Um, ma'am, I don't mean to be pushy, or rude…" he stumbles, the open expression of his face is that of embarrassment as he goes to admit, "But I don't think you should be skipping meals…you know, you look ten minutes from being…malnourished."

The red that stains his cheeks makes the edges of her lips turn up on their own. She's so surprised in the act that she doesn't bother hiding it or suppressing it. Though she's fairly certain that her curtain of hair has obstructed her view. The man is scratching the back of his neck in a nervous little habit waiting to either be proved he was insensitive or wait for…who knows what. The pleading look in his pale blue eyes reminds her of a puppy. It means well even in the way its overtly trusting and loyal.

So she relents, sort of, "Cigarettes."

"M-ma'am?" he stutters at the sudden vocal response and then his face scrounges up before he states, "cigarettes aren't a meal and I'm told they are now very hazardous to one's health."

The man seems to look proud at the fact that he's relayed this bit of information to someone else. Like he's been harboring tid bits of information for the rare chance that someone around him might not know and he could help them. It strikes her a bit odd but she says nothing on the matter. She merely tilts her head to the side and allows her hair to part. The man stares at her for a moment his pale blue eyes running over the expanse of her face before settling on her eyes.

Quickly she notices that he has not dropped his gaze. His soft pure pale blue stay locked with the bottomless onyx ones of her own. It is rare, strange even, that anyone could hold her gaze. It unsettled most and she wondered why he could so easily do it without even flinching.

"Guns, bullets, kicks, punches, tossed through buildings and being struck by lightning," she mumbles to him so lowly it's as if though she barely speaks.

She doesn't need to elaborate, or at least so she feels. She took on the whole of avengers and he was here concerned about lung cancer? He was kidding right?

It takes a moment for realization settles upon the man's face whether from what she said or from the slight furrowing of her brows she doesn't know. He blushes a faint pink before nodding in a jerky fashion and mumbled, "Cigarettes then."

With that he's off rushing through the door that opens and a couple of armed guards following his wake.

"They say you're a frost giant…" he mumbles as he shifts in the foldable chair he sits in.

It's been exactly four hours since she's been granted her pack of cigarettes. She's down to only three left. She blames the chain smoking on the nerves but she knows better. She'd developed an unhealthy habit it seems. Since bringing to her the pack and a pack of flimsy wooden matches (obviously to prevent any 'funny business') he has not left.

First he stayed simply to stare. Slowly he engaged her into a one sided conversation, him being the one side. After a couple of minutes he left and dragged in the chair so he could sit. He spoke of little things like the simplicity of baseball and the confusing rules to football. He talks about the internet more than she cares for. But she can't seem to send him away. His smile is nearly infectious. It's all bright and honest showing her genuine excitement and care for whatever it is he speaks of. This was why he was seated in a folded chair staring at her.

"Something called a Jotem?" his tongue wrings out the foreign word. His blue eyes flash up to meet hers and again she's startled at how easy it is for him to hold her gaze.

Flicking the growing ash into the cup of water he brought her she mumbles softly, "_Jötunn_."

"Oh, sorry," he amends with a perfectly lopsided grin. After a slight pause he asks on a serious note, "Are you though, a Jötunn that is."

Taking a deep lungful of smoke she releases it in a plume of smoke, "No…" his nod is slow and jerky. The soft glint in his eye fading as if he knows now that despite having talked to her he knows she didn't trust him. It was as if he knew she would lie in the end. He looked disappointed and just a tad bit betrayed, she didn't like that look, not one bit, especially if directed anywhere in her direction, so she amends, "and yes."

Those pale blue eyes the very shade of the mid day sun quickly sparkled back to life as she stared at him. The smile of triumph barely suppressed. The man was too honest for his own good. But she liked that, honesty. It was an admirable trait for one to have, honesty. But she assumes that she only thinks that because she's been raised in deceit her whole life.

"Uh, how so, if you don't mind me asking," he asks breaking her free from her thoughts. An eager smile spread on his face much too beautiful for a mere man to have.

It's a fraction of an action as she shrugs and lowly whispers, "Complicated…"

The short answer seems to appease him as he settles back in his chair and nods. His voice is low as if though he's about to lose himself to his raging thoughts as he says, "I get that…"

To look at her was to look at something that they knew did not exist. Or at least, what they thought didn't exist. After all a god was seated among them. At this point they weren't about to rule out anything unless seen with their own eyes.

It had been Bruce who wandered in and stared at the screen upon the wall. He stayed silent until finally voicing his thoughts, "she looks very…pixie-like."

The archer perked at Bruce's words. He'd been alone for quite some time in the room lazily watching as Steve the adorkable good man rambled on and on about nothing in particular. His eyes had never left the oddity that was the raven haired…girl. The thought had struck him that she had in fact looked fairy-ish but had no one else to bounce the idea off of.

"Yeah, I see that," Clint agrees pulling his feet off the round table and shifting out of his lounging posture.

And really, he did. What with deep inky tresses falling to linger past her slim hips and her snow white complexion. She had long willow limbs. Her large eyes would be doe shaped if not for the fact that they were as dark as night and about as soulless as a corpse. Her lips were plump and pouty but were colored too much like blood and Clint only ever liked blood when it came from an enemy, never on a girl. Well, that's a lie; Natasha pulled that off quite well.

"See what?" Tony asks stepping into the room and while he's all tall lean muscle his ego seems to swallow the remainder of the space.

"That girl," Bruce begins in hesitation his introverted anti-social awkwardness shining through, "d-don't you think she looks pixie-like?"

Tony spares the girl on the screen smoking like a chimney for a moment before agreeing, "She definitely has all the fine makings of a woodlyn nymph straight out of some morbid fairy tale and cursed forest."

"What do you think Steve's gotten out of her?" came the sudden voice of Natasha as she called over the table.

Two scientists were startled at her sudden appearance and the only other expert assassin answered with a shrug of his shoulder and, "Not much, he's doing most of the talking. The guys gone over some memory of his first baseball game in painful detail like three times already. Swear I feel like I've been there at this point."

"Are you not a fan of baseball Clint?" Natasha asked idly looking at her perfectly manicured nails.

Rubbing his hands tiredly over his face Clint grumbles, "No, I'm not a fan of boredom."

"If you think about it Clint back in Steve's time baseball was all the rage," Bruce tells the strung out archer as if that would soothe him.

"Eh, I find the whole thing overrated," Tony mumbled sinking into one of the chairs.

"My friends!" came the ever exuberant sound of Thor as he crossed the threshold, "I have found you!"

All flinched at the volume of the Asgardian but only one had the courage to be so snarky when that brilliantly happy smile was alight as it was, Tony, "Thor, we've talked about this, inside voice."

Shocked Thor's smile falters for a moment before he nods and says in a noticeably lower voice, "Ah yes, my apologies, you midgardians have very strange customs when indoors."

"Coming from the man that wanted a celebratory group showering," Tony snickers sinking into his own seat.

Smirking at the memory Clint turns to eye Tony, "You shot that idea down pretty quick there Stark. Makes one wonder what it is you're so eager to hide…"

"Oh, are you suggesting I'm inadequate?" Tony questions with a raise of his dark brown brow and a twitch of a frown on his lips, "because I can assure you that I am more than just adequately endowed."

A muffled scoff from Bruce and a very obvious one from Thor make Tony bristle, "You know there are plenty of super models, actresses and heiress that could attest to this if you would like."

"If you children are done sizing each other up we have a new lead on this whole case," Fury announces quieting all. With Coulson by his side he moves to the screen that showed their prisoners and dropped a few files on the table. Without so much as a nod the screen flickers and changes to a satellite image of downtown, "Turns out our little Jötunn lady has an apartment downtown."

"You're kidding me, right?" Tony grumbles out eyes wide and smile crooked and leering.

"No," Fury easily informs before continuing, "Apparently she's been living in the said apartment for for years now. Clint, Natasha, I want you both to check this out. Gather as much information as you can and report back as soon as possible."

With a relieved sigh and smile Clint nearly shouts back with excitement of having something to do, "Yes, Sir!"


End file.
